“Meaning, Ace, I think you’re doing the right thing—I can think of fifty ways that Langley could, would, fuck this up—and that means what I said, I just hope you realized what size chaw you just bit off.”
Castillo nodded.
“Any other questions or comments?” he asked.
When there were none, he gestured toward the sliding door of the quincho. “Let’s see to our guests.”
Bob Kensington, in a chair against one wall of the quincho, was still in his bathing trunks. He had the Uzi on his lap, the weapon’s sling, with a two-magazine pouch hanging from it, slung around his neck.
Sof’ya was sitting on the floor with the pups and Max. The puppies were trying to climb high enough on Max, who was sitting beside the girl, to gnaw on his ears. He didn’t seem to mind.
The adult Russians were sitting in a row on wicker chairs. Berezovsky had removed his jacket, revealing a sweat-soaked shirt and what Castillo decided was a really cheap pair of suspenders. His wife and Svetlana had removed their jackets. Their blouses were the opposite of crisp and fresh.
“Did you all get something to drink?” Castillo asked.
Berezovsky and his wife nodded.
Sof’ya said, “Thank you.”
Svetlana didn’t respond at all.
“The first thing we’re going to do is get you some summer clothing,” Castillo said. “And the way we’re going to do that is that Mrs. Berezovsky will go with Agent Britton”—he pointed to Sandra, not Jack, surprising more than a few—“to the local shopping center. Make sure you know the sizes of everyone, Mrs. Berezovsky.
“While they are gone, I will show the others your accommodations, and you can move your luggage into them. Mr. Darby and Mr. Delchamps will have to take a look through the luggage—”
“Is that necessary?” Svetlana interrupted.
Does that mean you have something you don’t want me to find?
Or that you have nothing I might consider contraband, and are going to be amused at our fruitless search?
“Obviously, Colonel, I have decided that it is,” Castillo said. “And right now I would like your purses, wallets, money, passports, and all identification. Put them on the Ping-Pong table, please, now. The purses will be returned after Agent Davidson has had a chance to examine them.”
“Less the contents, of course?” Svetlana asked sarcastically.
“Colonel, why don’t we try to start our relationship as amicably as possible? We are going to be spending a good deal of time together, and I don’t see much point in making it any more unpleasant than necessary.”
Colonel Alekseeva responded to the proffered olive branch by standing, then walking over to the Ping-Pong table and dumping the contents of her purse on it.
“Okay?” She held up the purse—he thought it looked like something that could be used to hold horse feed—so that he could see it was empty.
“Fine. But leave the purse, will you, please?”
She glowered at him.
What’s this, a new tactic?
Now she’s going to be a martyr, and I’m going to have to be nice to her, so she’ll look deeply into my eyes again?
“One never knows, does one, Colonel, what might be hidden in the lining of a purse? For all I know you might have another .32 in there.”
She tried to stare him down and failed.
“Are you about ready to go shopping, Mrs. Berezovsky?” Castillo said.
“May I take my daughter with me?”
“You may. But don’t you think she’d rather play with the dogs?”
She looked at her daughter and then smiled.
“Yes, I do,” she said.
“Just get enough clothing for three days,” Castillo said. “Plus a bathing suit or two.”
“Bathing suits?” Svetlana asked incredulously.
“This is a five-star prison, Colonel. With a swimming pool. I also think you will like the food, which will be ready by the time Mrs. Berezovsky and Agent Britton have returned.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Your choice, Colonel,” Castillo said. “Use the pool or don’t use it. For that matter, wear a bathing suit or don’t wear one. That’s up to you.”
“There are three bedrooms—actually suites—on the second floor, Tom,” Castillo said to Berezovsky, then pointed at a closed door. “The center one here is mine; it has an office in which I will conduct my part of the interrogations. The other two suites don’t have the office. Arrange yourselves in them any way you want.
“At night, the doors will be locked and there will be someone in the corridor to make sure we have no ‘sleepwalkers.’ And there will be someone in the drive to make sure no one opens—or goes through—the windows. That should prove no problem, as only a fool sleeps with an open window in an Argentine summer.
“The point I’m trying to make, Colonel,” Castillo went on, making it clear that he was talking to Berezovsky, not to Svetlana, “is that I will make every reasonable effort to make our relationship as business-like as possible, as comfortable as possible, so long as you’re here.”
“And how long will that be?” Svetlana asked.
Castillo ignored her.
“Every reasonable effort for comfort is dependent, of course, on good behavior. The alternatives range from moving you onto cots in the garage, which is not air-conditioned, to leaving one or both of you trussed up like Christmas turkeys on the driveway of the Russian embassy on Rodríguez Pena.”
“I asked, ‘How long are we going to be here?’ ” Svetlana said.
Castillo turned to her after a moment. “Until you earn back the cost of what it cost me to get you here, plus of course the two million dollars we’ve talked about.”
“And how long do you think that will take?” she pursued.
“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to leave you with Mr. Darby and Mr. Delchamps. While they are having a look at your luggage, Mr. Davidson, Max, and I are going to take a dip until supper.”
On his way to the quincho five minutes later, Castillo—now wearing bathing trunks—was intercepted by the housekeeper. She was holding up a bathing suit.
“For the poor little chica, if that’s all right. It belongs to Juanita. I already gave one to the other lady.”
Castillo presumed that “Juanita” was either a diminutive maid or one of the housekeeper’s children. Or grandchildren.
“That’s very kind,” Castillo said. “How about going out there with me and helping her get into it?”
When Castillo, trailed by the maid, walked into the quincho, Bob Kensington was standing by the AFC communications device and a stand-alone all-in-one device that could print, scan, and send and receive facsimile transmissions. Kensington was feeding the machine from the stack of passports, identification cards, driver’s licenses, and the like that they had taken from the Russians.
Kensington stated the obvious. “This goddamn thing is the slow-link—takes forever to scan this stuff.”
“Miller can’t run that stuff through NSA at Fort Meade until he has it. Nose to the grindstone, Sergeant Kensington!”
“Yes, sir,” Kensington said, then loudly shouted, “Hoooo-rah!”
Castillo laughed. The shouting of “Hoooo-rah!” to indicate their enthusiasm to carry out a difficult task was getting to be almost a hallmark of U.S. Army Rangers, and even some lesser ordinary soldiers.
Most Special Forces people—and almost everybody in Delta Force—thought doing so was ludicrous.
Castillo said: “Your oh-so-commendable enthusiasm, Sergeant, has earned you a promotion. You are now the detachment’s classified documents officer.”